Never Again
by glindalupin
Summary: SLASH. Holmes/Watson. Holme's POV and train of thought during EMPT.


Over the thunderous roar of those accursed falls, I was not able to hear much of anything at all.

However, I heard you.

"Holmes!"

Infuriatingly enough, as you well know, this personal vendetta of Moriarty against my person had extended to murderous attacks and a constant and vigilant watch of my home at the once-pleasant 221B Baker Street.

I was well aware the attacks would come the very moment I began to elucidate the web of crime to Scotland Yard that had begun to make itself apparent in the years before said incidents.

However, I could not have accounted for the personal loss you would experience at his... my hands.

My dearest Wa- John. I am terribly sorry this…

Confound it all. Every scrap of paper I have encountered in these three years has become a letter of sorts to Doctor John H. Watson, M.D., my former flat mate and closest friend.

My mind was in a constant, ceaseless boil in the weeks before Reichenbach falls, so I hardly had the time to think on my married friend whilst disentangling myself from several precarious situations, brought upon by the accursed Moriarty and company.

Therefore, when I saw him in our sitting rooms again, after several months' long hiatus (which was quickly ended by my dramatic entrance) my mind was finally allowed its moment of peace to draw forth its problems regarding Moriarty and present them to him, as I had always done with nearly every case.

Watson always had a method of bringing to light many aspects of cases which I could not see until I was required to negate several of his incorrect assumptions.

It put me at ease in those few hours I had to introspect, ironically, to him. The fear that pervaded my body and soul seamlessly dissipated into the afternoon and evening. The comfort of our domesticated and once-habitual talks had the numbing effects of a sedative. Never would I have known that I would draw upon that memory in my coming solitude, as I used had once in a similar fashion upon the seven-percent solution.

Unfortunately, all good things must come to pass, as did our friendship. I have no reason to believe Watson, sweet Watson, could ever forgive me for feigning death these three long years.

And thus, I have passed three long years believing my life in London was long over. I had never felt more alone. True, I still kept contact with that long-gone life, discarded like the leaves of a tree in autumn, through my brother, Mycroft.

However, even that shred of correspondence was minimal, due to the drastic avenues we endeavored to partake in order to keep my death a public belief, especially to those agents of death behind me at every turn.

Oh, were these years lonely.

Sigerson and Basil may have enjoyed and delighted in Mecca, France, Lhassa, Khartoum, and Florence, as well as every place in between, but Sherlock Holmes, me, missed everything there was to be had in London.

It was unnerving never to have time enough to get to know the occupations of surrounding people or their habits. I could scarcely ever deduce anything from a person's appearance as I once could. It was quite chilling to realize. Quite frankly, I was in the dark about every stranger I met. I am loathe to think of how obscure that three year night really was.

Nights were horrendous in their own right, as well. I had no reason to believe each night that I would wake up again. Moran and other agents had followed me across several continents already, and sleep was simply another agent in their employ. It was difficult to get a moment's rest knowing this fact.

What made it even worse to sleep was the thought of dear Watson. His screams at the falls, calling my name, haunted me during those nights, when nothing else in my daily life had cause to use my mind's faculties. "Holmes," he had called, endeavoring to find any clue as to my end. He found his own idea, albeit through an avenue I would not have taken, for I knew better, but it pained me greatly to sit and witness sobs tear through his body as he read and re-read my letter, looking frantically this way and that, like a lost pup for its master.

Tears came to my eyes when I thought of how cruel it truly was for me to let him believe I was dead. The decision was made in an instant and steeled more by the thunder of boulders, sent to destroy me.

However, time would find me regretting and reliving my decision, night in and night out. How could I allow myself to not include Watson in my decision?

Time was ever so cruel to me those three years. It brought news to me of Watson's further anguish. Mary, the sweet flower who had brought happiness to Watson upon their first meeting, and who I was sure brought him resolve and solace after my death, was also lost forever. However, she was not lurking in some far off country, as I was. She was truly gone.

My heart, though I was bitter to believe I even had one, wished to be in England when Mycroft sent along that dreadful news.

It brought with it a feeling of immense guilt. My death, and now hers, anointed the good doctor with the same loneliness I have been living with for three years now. Did he wander the streets as I have done, bereft of any friendly face or loving care?

I am sure he has.

I also lament my unfair judgments of his marriage to Miss Morstan, no, the former Missus Watson. She was, undoubtedly, a splendid match for dear Watson. I just never could forgive her for stealing Watson away from me.

It was not until I had three years of nights to deduce what that even meant.

The realization did not bring me joy, as it might have before Reichenbach, when I was too adept at pushing away any emotions I might have felt. The realization only brought upon more sadness because I must have wished this upon them in my jealousy.

No, ridiculous. I do not believe in such higher vestiges of power.

Still, I do not take any solace in that, knowing that this emotion, I dare say, is fruitless. Watson could never reciprocate this newly discovered affection and never will. I had wounded and afflicted him most grievously and unnecessarily.

I ached to be back in London.

Time eventually found me back there, still wary and cognizant of that vengeful Moran, but my desire to see Watson made it unavoidable any longer.

Mycroft, wonderful Mycroft, had eased my transition back into life, true life, that much easier. Baker Street never looked more like home.

There still was the inevitable issue of Moran, but the gossip of the Ronald Adair murder had my mind back in its machine-like habit, already recognizing the spidery links between him and this case. I knew if he was in London, all I had to do was announce my presence to him in some inauspicious way and draw him like the spider to her fly.

Thus, I plotted and schemed against the dastardly man, who even at that moment sent a man in his employ, Parker, to spy on me. I dare say I was still clever enough to go about my plot without Parker's knowing.

The end was near, the proverbial dawn was almost at hand, and I was able to comfortably lounge in my sitting room for a moment's peace.

I could not sit at ease for long in my chair, knowing that somewhere in the city was my oldest and dearest friend, knowing he was not sitting in the chair at my opposite like days of old.

There had to be a remedy.

I sought him out, disguising myself as an old, feeble bookstore keeper. It took little amount of inquiry to find him still at his practice in Kensington. I had waited, for long hours of restless torment, for him to exit his home. He did, and I could easily deduce how afflicted he really was.

Taking a stroll, as he usually did when something was the matter, Watson was limply rather plainly now, not even endeavoring to hide it anymore. His old wounds were clearly aggravated by the weather, stress, and the meaning behind that black armband adorning his arm like an indelible stain.

Dare I ask if he wore it for my death?

He had aged even more than I have. Our three year age difference now seemed a larger gap. My chest felt afire with deep regret.

He stopped for a moment to listen to the discussion of a tall man, regarding the very case I was about to unfold. His blank face became a frown. Good old Watson. He knew a cad when he heard one. He turned quickly.

Foolish. I should not have been following so close, but part of me longed to make sure it was him and remind myself by pushing ever so close. I could almost faintly smell him, and he still smelled the same as always. My eyes closed in faint relief, reliving days of old filled with vigilant watches in such close company, whispered plans and clasped hands.

That day would come again, I knew. It had to.

I just had not expected him to run into me just yet. I was in shock and utter terror that he would discover before I had adequate time to prepare what to say, what to do, what to implore. All I could do was snarl and run away with my peddler's books.

Once safely off Park Street, I caught my breath, but my heart still pounded from the reverie of his hand brushing mine, his eyes looking into mine. Watson still existed beneath those eyes drugged with pain and depression. I had to bring him back to life. I could not bear another day of existence knowing my Watson to be so afflicted.

I ran to his home and forced my way in, through his maid and up the stairs. The rooms still were kept the same as they once were, but it took a tremendous mental effort to open the door to his consulting room.

One. Two. Three.

Watson had looked up at me.

_Zounds, what a sight._

My heart keened and soared all in one, strange moment. Emotions were becoming more difficult to avoid and withstand, but I kept a straight face.

The giddiness of seeing him won out over the concern and grief for that weighty sorrow in his countenance, and that fiendish impishness in me, curse it to the infernal depths of hell, took over.

I chatted with him about my books for a moment and was able to draw his attention away from me, if but for a moment.

A moment was all I had needed. The game was up, the disguises finally shredded, and Sherlock Holmes had now truly reentered the real world. What is Sherlock Holmes without his John Watson?

The moment of truth was at hand.

He turned slowly around, assuredly not expecting anything out of the ordinary. I saw a gasp escape his lips, and I smiled good-humouredly at him.

Only when he fell to the floor in a daze, did I realize my egregious mistake.

What the deuce could I have been thinking?

The rush to his side was done in an instant, and my hands found their way to his collar, loosening it and removing his tie. As I sat him up straight, I wrestled my demons to stop from crying out in utter concern. His face truly was much older than it had been three years ago, lines upon his brow when they should have been in his cheeks and around his eyes. I brought the brandy to his lips, and I prayed he would wake and not despise me for what I had done to him.

He quickly roused from his faint, and he looked as if he were about to again when his eyes lighted upon me yet again. I wanted to reach out, to steady him, but I could not bring myself to touch him when I had wronged him in so many ways.

I settled upon an entreaty. "My dear Watson. I owe you a thousand apologies. I had no idea you would be so affected."

My eyes fell to the floor in my shame, but they were wrested upwards by his violent seizure of my forearms. Fearing the worst, I came face to face with his utter devotion.

Those eyes, moments before lost in a sea of pain, were alight anew with happiness and excitement. I could barely contain my own happiness, as I embarked to tell him everything, absolutely everything, that had transgressed in my absence.

Almost everything. I could not bear to tell him my emotions towards him in my absence, knowing it to be unfair to afflict him with such a statement when he had been across the world undergoing a worse malady, two even...

He sat restlessly throughout the story, following my actions and gesticulations with refurbished zeal, and I had no reason to assume anymore he would hold any of my errors against me. A small pang of guilt ceased me when I thought of how faithful a person I had betrayed and how wrong I was not to include him in on my plans.

Watson's emotions would have none of it, immediately desiring to rejoin me at my side. I was never happier than I was when he wanted to follow again, as he had done years before.

At a half past the hour of nine, we were out again on another adventure of Holmes and Watson, the wheels of the hansom singing on the pavement the elatedness we shared in each others' company yet again.

Watson looked like a child at Christmas. The age had almost melted away from his countenance. I could not speak, as I could only think of the end to these horrible three years and finally believe to regain my peaceful existence again with Watson. Moran had to atone for his sins.

_And I for mine._

However, my thoughts were interrupted as I realized we had reached Cavendish Square. The longing for peace again was replaced by fear and panic. Watson and I exited, and I led him on a singular path to Blandford Street. He never wavered in following me, sweet Watson, still expecting me to know what I was doing.

Had my cautionary terror not been in place, sheer happiness would have overtaken me. However, a job of the utmost importance had yet to be completed. I finally got to Camden House and entered with Watson.

The darkness sent a chill down my spine, reminding me of those long nights oft spent under the naked sky, being reminded of my and Watson's losses. Unconsciously, I found myself snaking a hand around his wrist, assuring myself of his continued presence and reminding him I was still here, as well.

Finally, we reached the correct room. The faint light illuminated Watson in such a way that gave me pause. He was silently breathing in and out, obviously excited from the adventure again. Boyish and fiendish smiles now splayed across his face.

I could not help but lean in close. "Do you know where we are?"

"Surely that is Baker Street."

Good old, Watson. I grinned widely.

I continued to whisper softly in his ear, not wanting to break the addicting spell. I pointed out to him the wax doll crafted for this ploy.

He crept to the window and saw for himself my undoubted "twin" and gasped. His reaction left my in raptures, as his hand quickly sought me again, obviously to ensure it was not me across the street.

How human he was and is, not just a fond and lamented memory. I laughed, quietly, unable to contain my relief that Watson was _real_ again.

I continued to reveal the plans I had made towards Moran, but my artistic and dramatic self still kept his involvement in the Adair murder to myself. His smile grew wider, and Watson slowly made his way back from the depths of his soul.

Once explained, we continued to wait in silence, Watson trying to point out to me Lestrade and his companion below, believing them to be conspirators of Moran. The anticipation began to gnaw at me, and I ignored him.

How much longer would I have to wait to finalize the last paragraph of this accursed chapter in my life?

Watson started. "The shadow has moved."

My anxiety regrettably converted into a scathing retort, but Watson appeared to not be affected from it. I would have to take pains to not allow my frustrations to transcend towards him in the future.

_Wait!_

I saw it. A sign of his approach. I placed a hand to Watson's lips, to quell the silent breathing. My other hand was still snaked in his. I could not stop the tremors from seizing my frame.

The final moment was approaching.

I pulled Watson away, towards the shadows and waited, tersely for it to arrive. I had not expected Moran to use this room, but I worked out a solution to this new predicament immediately.

And in he came.

We watched and waited as he assembled that deadly beast of a rifle.

A shot silently cut through the glass of my sitting rooms and through the head of the dummy. The time to act was now.

I ran forward and leaped on the man, struggling against his ferocious and vengeful strength, quickly finding my throat clutched in his merciless hands. The air was harder and harder to draw in until Watson remedied the situation with a quick blow from his revolver. I began to blow my police whistle as Watson held the man to the floor.

Lestrade and other constables were soon alleviating Watson of his duty, cuffing Moran and bringing light into the room.

The true animal in the man had been unleashed, and his countenance was enough to send many a man scurrying away before him.

I would not be that man. With Watson again at my side and the hell hound finally leashed, my confidence soared. All he could mutter was, "You clever, clever fiend."

I wanted to gloat, to revel, to leap in joy. This man was finally on my terms, finally my prey.

"Ah, Colonel." Thus began my revelation of the man's deeds and my tirade against his fiendish vigilance.

My voice escalated and my demeanor dissolved in the slightest. By the end of my tiger metaphor, I was shaking with a furious glee, and Moran wrested forward from the constables in a feeble attempt.

We continued our exchange, and I was finally able to hammer the final nail into his coffin by revealing to all his murder of Adair.

The imprisoned tiger, once the ferocious and persistent hunter, was finally put at bay, and my mind could rest.

The rest of the evening passed by as if a dream. Watson and I boldly entered our old flat, finally, without fear of surveillance or death. Seeing him in those rooms again was like adorning my old and well-worn dressing gown.

I deduced a change in his demeanor right away, even as we examined the dummy and bullet, even as I explained to him the depths of Moran and his motives for killing the young Adair. The thrill of the chase seemed to wear off with each revelation I made about the case, showing in his lack of normal enthusiasm towards my abilities.

Had I lost Watson forever in my folly? Had he reconsidered his forgiveness, now that the excitement was gone?

I wrapped up our discussion of the case quickly and nervously. "Once again Mr. Sherlock Holmes is free to devote his life to examine those interesting little problems which the complex life of London so plentifully presents."

I also endeavored to query cautiously, "With his Boswell at his side?"

Watson's brow wrinkled for the first time that night, hesitating to answer. He stood and looked about the room, allowing his hand to fall on the mantle.

It seemed a lifetime had passed until his eyes fell on mine again. My heart had ceased to beat waiting for it. I could only watch in agony as I awaited his response.

His eyes once again looked weary and despairing, but there was a faint glimmer there.

_Please, Watson._

"Holmes…"

I stood up quickly, not wanting to face this rejection and waved my arm about the room. "Watson, you must really stay, at least for the night. You can take however long you need to decide if you would like to move back, but do please stay the night. It's exceedingly late, as it is. Your room has been kept just as you had it last."

My eyes never left his.

He smiled, faintly at first, but it slipped away into acquiescent abandon. "Very well, Holmes."

I must have looked the fool, grinning as I was.

"Just like old times, Watson. Just like old times…"

He smiled again, even more so faintly. "I think I should be off to my quarters now, Holmes. I'm dreadfully exhausted." His leg convulsed slightly, and I realized sadly that it must be his wound acting up.

"Oh, do, Watson! Please do! I shall wake you in the morning when Mrs. Hudson has breakfast ready, lest she beats me to it."

Watson nodded and turned to the door.

"Watson?"

He quickly turned back, still the obedient and faithful man as ever.

"Thank you."

A smile. A true one, this time.

Then, he was gone, leaving me again to the night and the solitude. A cold, chilling panic swept through my body like an Artic wind. I tried to steady myself with a glass of brandy and a stern reminder to myself that he was still in the flat, not kilometers and kilometers away.

I found myself at his door, lacking the nerve to enter but not lacking the audacity to remain there, listening for any sound at all to confirm that he indeed still existed in my life.

I was not prepared to hear muffled, choking sobs from the other side of the door. I could feel my heart race, and my cheeks flushed with shame out of the intrusion of privacy, as well as the fact I may be to blame.

How I longed to wipe away each tear! How I ached to replace that muffling object with my lips and softly kiss away each rivulet of anguish!

_Watson._

I must have whispered the name aloud, for the sobs ceased immediately. I tensed and, for one of the few times in my life, was unable to act.

The door opened in front of me, and Watson stood rooted to the spot when he discovered I was before him.

His eyes were fiery red from the tears, and he was still in the clothes he had been wearing when I last saw him.

"John…" was all I could whisper.

"Don't."

I was at a loss for words, mumbling what first came to mind. "Watson, I truly am sorry. For everything."

A grimace was my reward. "I know, Holmes. I know. An apology, however…"

"Is simply not enough?"

"Yes…"

Of all my clever schemes, of all my cunning, none of these faculties were present to provide with a solution to this conundrum. Here was my greatest friend in the entire world, openly bleeding his grief, and I could not assuage that pain whatsoever.

"Watson… I would do anything to see you smile as you did today again. I regret my every action of the last three years, considering each was done without your knowledge of possible existence. I…"

Pain. Blinding pain.

Watson had slammed me roughly against the hallway's wall, and my head loudly bounced off of it. "How dare you!"

"Watson, I had thought by your previous actions and statements during the afternoon that you had forgiven me…" I whispered with fright.

_Please, do not despise me._

"How can I forgive you? You have no idea what it's like to truly have no one…"

I wanted to protest, to cry out that my own life for the last three years had been one of solitude, but the searing pain in his eyes and the grip upon my shoulders silenced me.

"I thought I could forgive you today, Holmes. I really did. But being in these rooms after so long…"

His hands slowly released my shoulders, and Watson turned back to his room, shuddering. "Being here after three years is just a reminder of what I lost. Being here so soon makes it feel as if it never happened."

In an instant, he was upon me again, savagely but justly crushing my shoulders under his palms. "It happened, Holmes, and nothing you do, nothing you say, will ever give me those three years back."

I could not breathe.

"Nothing you do, Holmes, will bring Mary back."

My eyes stung fiercely at his words. He blamed me for Mary's death.

He could see the confusion in my eyes. "Oh, yes, Holmes. She died a much broken woman. I…" The sobbing returned. "I could not bear to lose my friend, and I mourned as one would for their spouse for two long years. Mary could not stand to see me thus afflicted and did not receive the attentions of her husband as she should have."

Watson's eyes, though locked in mine, seemed far away, gazing at Mary wistfully.

"Because of you, Holmes, I lost everything. _Everything!_" The last word was punctuated with another shove against the wall. The pain in my head was nothing compared to the pain my heart was feeling.

"I wanted to hate you for so long when she died. I wanted to curse your memory. I wished you were here, just so I could scream out at you every sufferance you've bestowed upon my life." He glared at me, and I was forced to look away. I could not bear, though I deserved it, to see such anger directed towards my person from the person that had come to mean so much to me throughout my life.

I realized at that moment that tears had silently fallen down my cheeks. I gasped for air, sobbing faintly, atoning for every sin. I would not allow myself to interrupt his need for retribution.

As if reading my thoughts, Watson growled, "Why will you not say anything, Holmes? You who always manages something to say?"

One hand relinquished its hold on my now bruised shoulder and grasped my chin roughly.

"Answer me!" He forced my chin upwards, and my eyes shut themselves of their own accord. My sobs grew louder, and it took all my resolve not to fall to the floor at his feet.

"John… I… I truly am sorry…"

His grip was still an iron vice upon my body, but he had stilled. Curiosity won out, and I slowly opened my eyes.

Watson's countenance was still contorted into that of ferocity, but his eyes spoke volumes of the turmoil his inner body and mind were saying.

I wept openly again, clenching my eyes shut against the sight of my wrongdoings. The hands on my body released their hold and disappeared, along with their owner, behind the door yet again, which was shut quietly and swiftly.

Alone again.

I shuddered and convulsed against the wall, sinking slowly to a resting position on the floor, still sobbing. My body ached from the much deserved attack, but my soul lay bleeding.

_This_ is why I despise the softer emotions. This infernal, dratted knife to my chest and mind. Yet, my soul had been taken over by John years before, and this was my reward.

Blinding, searing, excruciating pain.

No needle filled with all the cocaine in the world could have eased it.

Never before had I felt such raw emotions. It could not have come at a better time, for this was truly the consequence I was required to pay for my misdeeds.

And thus, I sat all night, against the wall outside of his door, in a pathetic state of self-pity and regret, lacking any energy or nerve to get up. It was as if all my drives and motivations had left the second Watson opened his door.

The morning's light could not sway me from my post, neither could Mrs. Hudson's step on the stair, nor her appearance at the door, aghast at my slumped, disheveled body against the opposite wall.

"Mr. Holmes!"

I meekly looked up at her and managed a feeble wave of my hand, drawing it back towards my body to linger upon my lips in a plea for her silence.

She nodded, still frightened, and entered Watson's room. I could hear her quietly inform him of breakfast, and I could faintly make out a mumble from his person in reply.

She left, not without several worried glances back, and I still could not bring myself to stir from my post, transfixed upon my sorrows and Watson's.

"Sherlock?"

I started violently. Never before had my Christian name escaped Watson's lips solely, without a quick pursuit of Holmes.

Looking up, I saw Watson at the door, peering around it and looking sadly at the state he knew to have left me in hours before.

"Please, come in."

The words appeared to work as if by some nefarious magic, finally managing to rouse me into an obedient walk of shame into his room.

He allowed me entrance and closed and locked the door behind the both of us, locking it against the rest of the world. I was at a loss for what to do, my arms hanging limply at my sides, and my eyes staring at the ground. This emotion was hell upon my brain's faculties, and a true testament as to why I never desired it in the first place. I was dumbfounded by it, to say the least.

Watson moved first, walking from the door to my side. He took my hands in his, gently this time. The rough shoves from the night before seemed ages away.

"Sherlock, I am terribly sorry for what I have said. You were not to blame for Mary's ailing health. My actions towards her were to blame."

One tear.

"I could never hate you, my dearest friend. I had felt at one point, as if I could, and seeing you so casually enter my life again sparked an unfair amount of respite towards you."

Another. And another.

"Aren't you going to say _anything?_" His eyes looked pleading, and they were filled with sister tears to mine.

I choked on thousands of words I thought to say, but none seemed to be fitting. I did not deserve any more chances at salvation. I shook my head despairingly and looked to the floor. "John…"

His hands were suddenly at my back, his arms embracing me. Unsure at first of what to do with mine, I eventually reciprocated and held him just as tight. "My dearest Sherlock… I am dreadfully sorry for my words. I was rash, and I just couldn't bear the thought of losing this again."

I inhaled raggedly, taking in his scent and feeling as if my world was about to fall to pieces. I snaked a hand up his back and into his hair. "Need not apologize, John. I truly deserve… anything you feel. And anything you ask of me will be done. You should not have gone through any of this…"

If he had asked to give up cocaine, I would have gladly, crushing the syringe underneath my foot.

If he had asked to punch me, I would have stood at bay, letting my arms fall to the floor.

If he had asked to kill me, I would have found the very knife to plunge into my cold heart. Not a jury in England would convict him after the wrongs I have done him.

He held me at an arm's length, but I kept my fingers in his soft hair. Watson regarded me carefully and breathed slowly outwards.

"Two things I shall ask of you."

I lowered my other hand and gently squeezed one of his. "Name them, and they shall be done without hesitation or retort."

"No more of this gallivanting off into death business. If your health is at stake or you wish to appear dead or dying, I shall be in the know. I've gone through the emotions of you dying now twice, once with Culverton Smith and once at the falls. Do not put me through it a third time, for the third time is always said to be the charm and may very well kill me."

His countenance was dreadfully serious. I swallowed and slowly nodded, wishing to do anything to erase those frown lines again and bring back the boy in Watson.

That boy suddenly returned. He smiled devilishly and held me close yet again. I gasped, nervous now as to his motives. "The second?" I faintly whispered, my heart pounding treacherously against his chest. He had to feel it beating!

He softly kissed the crown of my head and sighed. "Might I endeavor to ask for a kiss?"

My eyes widened. Watson may be many things, but inverted was a quality I had never deduced. I am sure my heart rate quickened doubly so, and I am surprised it even could without catastrophic result, but beat it did.

I, again, was rendered speechless. I looked up into his eyes and wanted to cry again.

No longer was there anger or age or weariness.

Just the boy. Just the happiness. Just that pure devotion.

Tremulously, nervously, I brought my lips to his.

_Interesting._

Fascinating.

Bliss.

Soft as they were, it was unlike anything I had ever done. I was completely at a loss of what to do next, so I was more than relieved when Watson began to lead our waltz. He slightly parted his lips, and I attempted to mirror his actions.

Oh, what a change did that make. Our passion escalated, and I was gently led to his bed. Watson nudged me into a prone position beneath him. I am sure my inexperience was blatantly obvious to a lover such as him, but the results of our foray were still exceedingly and exquisitely pleasant to both parties.

John's eyes, which I had never before noted with such sincerity, were truly shining as we parted. His hand found its way into mine, and he gently squeezed it. We were laying side by side at this point. "Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

He paused and frowned for a moment, as if deciding what to say. "Thank you…"

I was uncharacteristically confused. The wide range of emotions on his face told me naught of what he could have possibly meant. "For?"

Watson smiled warmly and brought his other hand to my lips and caressed them softly. "For being alive. For not rejecting my advances. For a thousand things that I cannot possibly describe."

So he was as nervous to lose me as I had been.

I chuckled softly and drew him to me again, kissing him chastely. "Thank you, my dearest John Watson, for forgiving me as you have."

We laughed together.

What a truly miraculous thing- laughter. I never believed to hear Watson laugh as such again, let alone our chorus of chortles.

Time found us wasting the morning away in John's bed, utterly forgetting the breakfast Mrs. Hudson had made, utterly disregarding any sense of propriety, just simply enjoying the company of the other and our newfound… relationship?

I never have experienced being attached to another individual romantically, so this endeavor will be a curious mystery to unravel each day with the help of my more experienced Watson.

I look back on all that has happened, as I lay here in the comforts of Watson's arms on this afternoon, and wonder if this sleeping lump of a man would be my newfound lover had Reichenbach not happened.

I shudder and feel his arms tighten around my body most gently. I sigh contentedly and decide to cease analyzing the situation, for once, easing back into his embrace.

As a much welcomed sleep begins to overwhelm my faculties, I realize that this is what I had missed my entire life. What a fool I must have been.

Never again.


End file.
